


Gift

by Jaeh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas fic, Gen, Molly - Freeform, Mycroft, greg - Freeform, late christmas fic really, mrs hudson - Freeform, passing mention of:, platonic as usual, post-post reichenbach fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaeh/pseuds/Jaeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all the world's deductive and inductive powers squashed into the human brain of one Sherlock Holmes, he still felt like a right idiot when faced with a dilemma bigger than a crashed aeroplane with all passengers found alive in every corner of the country.</p><p>Giving gifts to friends.</p><p>Specifically: giving gifts to John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gift

**Author's Note:**

> A post-Christmas fic as a gift for you, my lovely readers. I was going to post this earlier (aka BEFORE or ON Christmas) but I'd only finished it today. :D Happy Christmas, and a Happy(ier) New Year!

For all the world's deductive and inductive powers squashed into the human brain of one Sherlock Holmes, he still felt like a right idiot when faced with a dilemma bigger than a crashed aeroplane with all passengers found alive in every corner of the country.  
  
Giving gifts to friends.  
  
Specifically: giving gifts to _John._  
  
It was a week before Christmas, a month after he returned from his self-induced exile to distant parts of the world, destroying Moriarty's web. He'd been gone for three years, two years less than he'd expected. He wasn't prepared to find out most of the work had been done, courtesy of _the most dangerous man in London_ , _Mycroft Holmes_. As thankful as he is to his brother, not that he would ever admit it, he was still more than a little offended that his job had been done for him.  It reminded Sherlock of how the insufferable man used to do it when they were children, which brings back a barrage of memories that Sherlock was _certain_ he'd safely locked up in a vault in his mind palace.  
  
Sherlock had never been one to give gifts, nor to accept them. He always thought they weren't necessary,just a sentimental gesture that, if really well-meaning, didn’t have to be given during so-called “special dates” and just handed over whenever needed. Taking care of necessities should rank more priority than receiving anything garish and unnecessary. Not that he would ever admit that he _likes_ receiving gifts.  
  
But, Sherlock also knows that regular, almost painfully normal human beings would appreciate receiving gifts during these special occasions, and although John was far from it, his flatmate - _his friend,_ deserves one from him.  
  
There was one huge question that Sherlock, for the life of him, could not answer.  
  
 _What am I going to get John?_  
  
\-----------  
  
He prowled the whole of Savile Row at first, thinking about getting John a decent, proper suit for once, but deduced that it might be terribly awkward and John would simply never wear it. Out of politeness, he might, but he would be increasingly uncomfortable despite the perfect tailoring. Or John would simply not accept the gift, or have a minor fit over Sherlock's proper deduction of his body's measurement.  
  
Sherlock then took to gallivanting over half of London for a gift, getting lost—no _, exploring_ , he doesn't get lost—in Harrods, Debenhams, and Harvey Nichols, even Hamleys, but decided that John wouldn't really want a Paddington Bear.  
  
He was getting increasingly antsy at the horribly mundane and boring task he had taken upon himself. How do people manage this? There were simply too many people and not enough unique things to hold his interest. Although, he had to be honest. It wasn't as boring as he thought it would be. He'd managed it for hours now, when he was certain he wouldn’t last for even thirty minutes. Still, nothing jumped at Sherlock to give to John. It was getting embarrassing, really. He can solve a case in thirty minutes, a puzzling code in less than five, and yet when it comes to the few people he cares about, he was at a loss.  
  
He sighed. He was looking over a selection of cufflinks, thinking of getting John an engraved pair, then realised, almost belatedly, that John didn't wear any.  
  
Why was this so difficult anyway?  
  
He was locked in his musings, running through what he knew of John in his mind palace to deduce what infernal _anything_ the man would appreciate. He absently walked through the shop, eyebrows together in concentration, paying enough attention only to weave in and out of the way of the other customers.  
  
"Hello, sir! How may I help you? You look like you’re looking for something. I think I could definitely help you with that. What sort of selections are you looking for? We have an excellent choice of ties here, and I’m certain that you'll be able to find the sort you’re looking for…"  
  
The voice yammered away at the edge of his consciousness, threatening to make its way into Sherlock's thoughts. He looked up, not realising that he had stopped in front of the ties and handkerchiefs. He glanced to one side at the shop assistant blabbering at him.  
  
"No."  
  
The man merely blinked and continued.  
  
"I said no, I don't need your assistance. Leave me alone."  
  
The shop assistant—or rather, the manager, Sherlock corrected himself once he observed the tie (silk instead of plebeian cotton) and the name tag (white plastic, tacky gold script, “Mallory”)—followed him through the shop. Mallory kept up the one-sided conversation as he trailed behind, gesturing now and again at the items. Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment and willed himself to turn off his hearing. He needed to think. This was important. _John_ is important, and would that man just _shut up_.  
  
It was no use. The words flew right past Sherlock’s thoughts and cluttered his mind palace’s doorstep like junk mail.  
  
That’s it.  
  
He stopped abruptly. Mallory bumped into his back and tried to apologise. Sherlock turned and gave him a piercing, scrutinising stare.  
  
Then he spoke.  
  
\-----  
  
John marched through the aisles of an unfamiliar but posh-looking shop, grumbling all the while under his breath as he was yanked away (yet again) from his date.  
  
 _I've been detained at Liberty. Please come at once if convenient. SH_  
  
 _Just come. I haven't got all day and they won't let me out without a "responsible adult". SH_  
  
This is why his relationships never last.  
  
He had contemplated bringing his gun to the shop—simply shoot the insufferable idiot, so he wouldn't have to deal anymore. Then decided that was a rash and altogether Not Good, even if Sherlock probably deserved it. Besides, the man had just come back from the grave, and it seemed a waste to send him back so early.  
  
Upon Sherlock’s return, John had fainted right after he punched him in the face.  Sherlock tried to explain what he’d done while he was away as he nursed his bleeding nose, and they both ended up laughing. The man had just returned a few days ago, and this was the first time John had left him on his own. _It’s just one day. He can’t get into_ that _much trouble, surely?_  
  
Well, it looked like he’d been wrong about that.  
  
When he’d arrived at the shop, security escorted him to their back offices. The guard looked terribly tired as he told John that his friend had been “harassing” the manager.  
  
John looked up at the man in horror. "How, exactly, did he harass Mr Mallory?"  
  
"’E's been... 'deducing', ‘e says, lies about Mr Mallory the whole day—‘e’s threatening to sue your friend for sexual harassment.” The guard paused, looking confused. “Mr Mallory won’t come out of the break room cupboard. It must’ve been _horrible,_ whatever ‘e said.  
  
“I told ‘im I’ll talk to Mr Mallory for ‘im. All ‘e has to do is take his things and leave, but ‘e won’t because ‘e wants his stuff customised or somethin’. Wait ‘ere a moment, sir," the guard said, and left John sitting in an office chair.  
  
Knowing Sherlock, everything he said about the Mallory was probably completely true. The poor man must have been so embarrassed.  
  
He sighed. What was he doing in a bloody department store, anyway? Sherlock _hated_ shopping.  
  
John got up and easily found his flatmate in the room they kept him in, at a table. Sherlock looked, God forbid, blissfully _happy_ as he sat there quietly, patiently waiting for John to pick him up.  
  
“Finally. Let’s leave.”  
  
“I was sure that you’d be scaling the walls by now. Or at least, trying to escape.” John glanced round, suspicious of Sherlock’s lack of activity. “What did you do this time?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“You’re wearing your I-Have-A-Nefarious-Plan-Up-My-Sleeve smirk.”  
  
“I have a smirk?”  
  
“... Whatever you did, I don’t want to know about it,” he said, raising his hands slightly in mock surrender. “Please.”  
  
“All I did was to make him stop _talking_ ,” Sherlock said primly, hands folded on the table. “And what glorious _silence_ I acquired.”  
  
“You embarrassed the manager. _You made him cry_.”  
  
“I told him to leave me alone. Twice.” He stared at John, resolute, a ghost of his smirk still on his face. “I merely announced the truth to everyone.”  
  
John rolled his eyes and ignored him. He pointed at Sherlock’s things on the table. “We’re going. Put your coat on. It’s cold outside.”  
  
Honestly. It was like taking care of a child sometimes. He didn’t sign up for a ten-year-old in a 36-year-old transport. He wanted a flatmate. Didn’t he want a flatmate? He acquired a best friend instead. An insane one, at that.  
  
Lovely. It was almost Christmas, Sherlock just came back, and... this. Just like old times, really. John wasn’t sure if he should be happy or miffed about it.  
  
Sherlock stood and wrapped himself in his coat, looking every bit like a scolded child, albeit more royal than he had any right to be. “I apologise for having you leave your..." he trailed off and scanned him briefly. "Date. Once you've escorted me off the premises, you may go back to the Christmas party. She’s waiting."  
  
John blinked at Sherlock, who waved him away.  
  
"You’ve been dating this woman for approximately two months. She already met me and hasn’t left yet. She’s waiting for you." He picked up a wrapped parcel by the counter and hid it under his coat. "Go on."  
  
John gave Sherlock a smile of thanks and promptly ran off to get a cab.  
  
He never said Sherlock wasn’t amazing.  
  
\----  
  
It was a Christmas miracle. Sherlock played his violin, like a human being last night, even if it was at three in the morning. John had slept better than he had in months, better than he did at his own flat. He’d missed Sherlock’s semi-nightly lullabies, especially when he didn’t play like a howling ghost scratching at the walls.  
  
Mrs Hudson prepared a particularly hearty Christmas breakfast, with her amazing waffles and peppermint hot chocolate. John coaxed Sherlock into eating a small waffle boringly covered in plain butter, and John scarfed down four drowned in golden syrup. Mrs Hudson tutted at Sherlock’s lack of appetite, followed by another one of her tight hugs that never seemed to want to let go. Sherlock accepted each and every one, trying his best to relax.  
  
John smiled and leant back, watching them in contentment. During the last couple of years, he’d come over on Christmas Eve and stay with Mrs Hudson. On Christmas, they’d stay in the den, sit on the sofa and play pop Christmas songs that Sherlock hated—no, _hates_. Then they’d laugh over dinner and exchange gifts. John would sleep over and leave on Boxing Day after a filling breakfast.  
  
Greg had joined them.  Sometimes, they talked about Sherlock, most times they didn’t. Molly had refused to come every single time, and now John knows why. Mycroft never came, even if they had extended invitations towards him. A bottle of really nice and very expensive wine had always come in a black car, however. Harry usually just rang him in the afternoon to greet him a happy Christmas, although she was already a bit sloshed by then. She visited before the New Year. John had spent those nights alone in his flat, watching the fireworks on the telly, over a bottle of champagne.  
  
He watched Sherlock squeak in slight protest after Mrs Hudson spent way too long with her hug. John and Mrs Hudson laughed. Sometime later, Greg would come and join them if he wasn’t detained at the Yard for too long. John had invited Molly again this year to show that he wasn’t holding grudges about what secrets she had to keep.  
  
John had always wondered how he would’ve fared, if he knew that Sherlock merely went away and not actually _died_. He wouldn’t be able to face his friends, either.   _Went away,_ not dead. Hunted down Moriarty's gang, not six feet rotting underground. It had been a week and John still felt like he should watch out for anything that would suddenly wake him up.  After all, not everyone is given the chance to have their best friend back from the dead. And all he wanted for Christmas was a new laptop.  
  
Christmas. Ah, shit. He didn't have anything to give Sherlock, and he didn't think that the man's grave needed any more flowers, especially since it's empty. His return wasn't expected at all, and John couldn't think of anything to give.  
  
It’s fine. He has a whole, he hoped, lifetime to figure something out. Or at the very least, until before New Year’s Eve. But it’s all completely fine. He’d got the best gift he could ever wish for this year, and it was definitely a _miracle_.  
  
\----  
  
The party had ended a bit too early when Greg was called in on an open-and-shut case that needed his quick attention. Molly had excused herself as well after he had left. She still looked like she was a bit ill at ease round John and Sherlock, and John had decided that she needed a bit of time to adjust to it.  
  
Sherlock abruptly stopped his playing when Mrs Hudson left and dashed to his bedroom. He didn’t reappear until later in the night, leaving John a bit worried. Maybe the gathering had been a bit too much. He had only returned after all. Sherlock, however, entered the sitting room, with a bright smile on his face, the one that only a choice few were privy to. It looked almost _shy_ , actually, now that John really noticed it. Sherlock had a hand behind his back and looked rather expectantly at him.  
  
Oh.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
John’s eyes widened. A gift. He brought a gift. And John didn’t get him anything, not at such short notice.  
  
"You didn't have to get me a present. Having you back is enough," he blurted out. John coughed awkwardly into a fist. He wanted to see his best friend’s reaction but couldn’t bear it. His eyes settled on the skull, its hollow eyes staring at him mockingly. He had a sudden urge to knock its Santa hat off. “I— I mean, I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t exactly expect for you to... come back.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. He handed the meticulously wrapped gift over. “Happy Christmas, John.”  
  
It had been so long since John had smiled that brightly. “Happy Christmas to you, too, Sherlock. And thank you.”  
  
Sherlock disappeared back into his room, in a bit of a hurry. John stared after him a bit, then turned his attention to his gift. It was a small package, wrapped in silver and blue. It sparkled in the light, the elaborately tied ribbons rustling with each slight movement. John shook the box, but it didn’t make a sound—his gift seemed to fit snugly inside.  
  
He gingerly opened his gift, slowly peeling the sellotape off the metallic wrapping paper. John had learned to savour opening his gifts when he was a child since he didn’t get a lot of them, and the habit had stuck. Besides, he didn’t want to accidentally ruin the gift by ripping into it. Finally, the last of the wrapper fell off and he folded it neatly beside him before he turned to the small, cream box. John slowly took off the lid and put it aside.  
  
It was one of the most beautiful notebooks he had ever seen. It was bound in soft, brown leather, stiff enough to properly cover the pages but flexible enough to spring back when bent. The pages were blank, just as he liked it, and they were stitched together neatly and professionally. Etched in the corner of the cover were John’s initials in nice, flowing script.  
  
John opened his notebook in the middle and flipped through the pages quickly, looking at each clean sheet. All the cases that he could write...  
  
He straightened in his seat. Who said anything about cases? He wasn’t even sure if Sherlock was going to take new ones. He wasn’t going to invite himself to go on one of those “adventures” that they used to have. He was fine with simply visiting Sherlock at 221B, if it came to that. He still had his bright and shining career at the surgery, anyway.  
  
John reached the front of the notebook and found something written in Sherlock’s unusually neat scrawl. His eyes felt wet, and he wiped at them quickly. He heard the door open again and looked up at his best friend.  
  
“Well?” Sherlock asked, expression both hesitant and expectant.  
  
John smiled.  
  
\----  
  
 _John, I owe you a thousand apologies. I have been told I sound more eloquent on paper, so I will only say this here: I am grateful for your presence. I know I have been away for three years, and for that I apologise profusely._  
  
 _Well. This should be the start of a whole new adventure. You'll need a new notebook for blogging, and I would be glad for your company during cases again. Please._  
  
 _Sherlock_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [airamcg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/airamcg/pseuds/airamcg) and [ShortlockHolmes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortlockHolmes/pseuds/ShortlockHolmes) for the beta work! They ganged up on me with this one. It was torn to pieces and I had to watch in horror as they patched it up afterwards. Have I ever told you that I like poetic exaggeration sometimes?


End file.
